McNelly nodded and watched closely as Josiah helped Garcia off the horse. “Bring him inside the tent, Wolfe.”
Josiah touched Garcia’s shoulder gently to guide him into the captain’s tent. Scrap followed.
“Not you, Elliot. You can wait outside,” McNelly said, then turned and made his way inside the tent.
The crowd of men responded with more coughs and discomfort, but none of them said a word, just watched with unblinking eyes. Scrap must have felt like he was a pile of meat, surrounded by a circle of hungry wolves waiting for the first drop of blood to fall to the ground. Scrap was wounded, but McNelly had delivered a blow to the boy’s ego and had left his flesh for another enemy. If Josiah was a betting man, he knew the chance to see blood fall was in the offing and would come sooner, rather than later, especially when McNelly found out that the shipment of rustled cattle was expected on the steamer the next day.
Scrap stood wordlessly, obeying the captain’s command, the hardness on his face tightening even more as Josiah and Garcia left him behind and joined McNelly and Robinson inside the tent.
The flap snapped closed loudly behind them and sounded just like a slap to the face had been delivered to an unsuspecting scoundrel.
CHAPTER 21
A thin stream of black coal oil smoke rose up to the ceiling of the tent. The vent flap was wide open, and there was a noticeable draft, making it as easy as possible for Captain McNelly to breathe. The heat from the day had yet to fully subside, and the interior remained warm, like an oven that refused to cool.
There were three lamps inside the sparsely furnished tent, all of them burning so brightly Josiah had to squint his eyes and adjust to the light. After riding for so long under the darkness, being in camp and inside the tent was a jolt to his entire system.
It looked like no time had passed at all. But Josiah felt different. Weaker in some ways and stronger in others. He had freed himself of Pearl—for the moment, anyway—but was still haunted by his time with Francesca. He wasn’t sure he would ever see her again. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to. Leaving again would be difficult. Staying would be impossible.
As he had already assumed, a planning session had been interrupted by their arrival.
A map of the King Ranch lay sprawled out on the table. The ranch had been founded a little more than twenty-five years before by the former river pilot Richard King and a Texas Ranger, Gideon “Legs” Lewis. Their first purchase consisted of more than fifteen thousand acres, and continued to grow to this day. There was not a man in South Texas who did not know the Running W brand and the power and influence behind it. The longhorns with that brand were, of course, favored to be stolen by Juan Cortina.
Beyond the map of the King Ranch lay another one, this one showing all of the coast of the Gulf, with a few X marks in red, where Josiah surmised the captain and Robinson assumed the steamer might be waiting. There were also a few charted red lines that showed the possible trek from Cuba to the coast of Texas. But nothing looked certain, including the frustrated look on the captain’s face.
Josiah took a breath. He had been in the tent before, but it had been quick. He did not have a personal relationship with Captain McNelly, even though they had shared some time together, normally only under dire circumstances or Ranger business. Josiah was not Leander McNelly’s friend. The closest person to McNelly seemed to be Clement Robinson, and even that relationship seemed born of duty.
And after the incident in Arroyo, Josiah still felt a little nervous being in closed places, even though he was on soil that was securely Anglo.
A cot, covered with a familiar type of second-issue Army blanket, tan with dark brown stripes, was stuffed neatly in the corner of the tent. Other than two chairs, one with a tarred haversack carefully hung over it, the table, and the cot, the room was vacant of anything other than a wood chest that looked like it had seen a lot of miles. Leander McNelly liked to travel light, and the almost bare command tent was proof of that.
McNelly sat down at the head of the map table. Robinson stood at the flap, his holster unsnapped, at the ready.
Robinson was tall and imposing and eyed Garcia with suspicion and distaste, but didn’t express himself as freely as Scrap had. Just by the look of the man’s clothes, nearly a uniform, even though one wasn’t required, and his perfectly trimmed long beard, it was easy to tell he was a man of great ambition. Josiah had no doubt that the man would someday become a captain in the Rangers.
Josiah guided Garcia easily to the captain. They all remained quiet for a moment, sizing one another up.
McNelly finally spoke to Garcia. “Sit down.”
“I would rather stand and face my problemas.”
“As you wish.”
“I wish to be free, Capitán.”
“That is not possible. At least at the moment.”
Josiah stood stiffly next to Garcia, sure to keep his mouth closed until he was called on to speak.
“I am well aware of your desires, Capitán. I am just unsure of the price I will pay if I give you what you want. I have a family that I would like to return to. A job in the boatyard that I have worked at since I was a niño. I am not a greaser.” The derogatory term hung in the air between Garcia and McNelly. Scrap had used the word freely, as he was apt to do. To Mexicans it was a demoralizing slur, originally used by troops in the Mexican-American War in the 1840s. The lowest occupation a Mexican held, according to them, was greasing the axles of an ox cart. “I am a fine citizen of my country, and I obey all its laws.”
“So you are not a member of Cortina’s raiders?”
Garcia’s head lowered. “Sí, I am.”
“So you are not a fine citizen, as you say.” McNelly stared at Garcia calmly, but he was not going to remain patient for very long. He tapped his finger on the table like a drummer leading a condemned man to the gallows.
“I am a desperate man. I needed the dinero, the money. Not all of us are thieves every day. Cortina has taken our weakness and made it his strength. The times in my country are difficult. I am a poor working man with a lot of mouths to feed. Do you have any niños, Capitan? Surely, you understand?”
McNelly flinched, then ignored the reference. He had two children—a boy, Revel, and a girl, Irene. He rarely spoke of either. “Do you know Rafael Salinas?”
“Sí, I do. I am under his command,” Garcia whispered.
“Then you can speak to him if that is necessary to gain your trust. No harm has come to Salinas, and none will come to you. You have my word.”
“I do not trust your word.” Garcia lifted his hand up and touched the raspberry bruise under his eye as softly as he could.
“Tell me of how your capture came to be,” McNelly demanded. There was a sharp edge of annoyance in his voice.
Garcia looked up to the ceiling of the tent, then returned his hard gaze to McNelly. “There were three of us, riding rear guard, protecting those that had collected the beeves. I got separated, and we had agreed we’d meet up in Arroyo if any of us did not return. But I was not lost, or had not tried to outrun the Rangers. I was trying to go back home. I decided I wanted no part of what was to come. I am no killer, either, and I was afraid for my own life. What happens to my familia if I am dead? They will surely starve. Their desperation would be worse, not better. I was a fool, thinking an easy peso was the solution.
“So, while my two compatriots waited at the cantina, I was sneaking home. They made a grand mistake by showing their anger and guns to the Ranger here, and his hotheaded amigo.”
“Is that true, Wolfe?” McNelly asked.
“There was a shoot-out in the cantina, sir. I was shot in the shoulder, and these wounds on my face came from a scattergun,” Josiah answered. “I am lucky to have survived, and if it wasn’t for the kindness of strangers in Arroyo, I wouldn’t be standing here with you now.”
“And Cortina’s two
men?”
“They are dead. Buried properly in the mission graveyard in Arroyo. They pulled their guns almost as soon as Elliot and I walked in the door. We had no choice but to protect ourselves.”
“And this is true?” McNelly asked Garcia.
“I was not there,” Garcia said, looking to the floor. “But Ranger Wolfe has been honesto with me and treated me like a decent human being.”
“And Ranger Elliot?”
“He treated me like a conejo.”
“A rabbit?” McNelly said.
“Sí, he hunted me down slowly, toying with me like a zorro, a fox. I knew he was there long before he attacked, but I could not outrun him. I feel lucky to be alive.”
Captain McNelly looked annoyed by the news of Scrap’s actions but said nothing to that effect. “You are safe here.”
“I have no choice but to believe you.”
The captain turned his attention to Josiah. “Your trip was eventful.”
“We are both lucky to be here.”
“Nothing has shown itself since you left. All of the other scouting teams are either still out or came back empty-handed.”
“Garcia has confided in me, Captain,” Josiah said. “The steamer is expected in the bay tomorrow.”
“Is this true?” McNelly asked the Mexican. His breathing seemed to calm, and his face tightened with happy anticipation.
“Sí, it is.”
“Then we ride at first light,” Captain McNelly said, almost jubilantly.
There was nothing to celebrate as far as Josiah was concerned. The coming dawn meant going into battle once again. And he had stopped looking forward to the opportunity to kill a long, long time ago.
CHAPTER 22
Dismissed, Josiah was the first man to leave the tent. He hesitated for a long second, concerned about Garcia—but quickly decided that if he couldn’t trust Leander McNelly and Clement Robinson with the man’s care and safety, then he didn’t belong in the Ranger camp in the first place.
He took the order that they were riding at first light for what it was. Garcia seemed resigned to his fate, too. If there was more to tell, then it was not for Josiah to hear. The Mexican was a prisoner now—and safe from Scrap’s rage.
The scouting assignment had been successfully completed, even though it had come at a higher cost than Josiah would have ever dreamed.
He pushed through the tent flap and found himself the direct focus of almost every man in the company. They had not moved since he and Scrap arrived. Every man in the camp looked anxious to know about the prisoner and what was next for them all. Not a one of them seemed to share Josiah’s dread of battle.
The perfectly formed arch around the entrance of the tent was still intact. There were familiar eyes, and some not so familiar, all tinged with a demand for answers.
To Josiah’s relief, someone had had the decency to see Clipper to the horse line. The Appaloosa had his head focused on a mound of fresh hay and was tied comfortably in among all of the other Rangers’ horses.
Satisfied that his horse was cared for, Josiah scanned the crowd quickly, ignoring the desire of the men in the company to know the outcome of the meeting. It was not Josiah’s place to tell them of McNelly’s plans. Once he saw that Scrap was nowhere to be seen, he made his way silently through the crowd.
Several men tried to stop Josiah, hoping to know what was afoot. Josiah just dropped his head and made his way up the hill, as far away from the captain’s tent as possible, as quickly as he could. Sergeant or no sergeant, he wasn’t about to break ranks with McNelly. The captain still had plans and decisions to make.
Josiah returned alone to the fire where he’d taken up residence before leaving for Arroyo. No one had bothered to follow him once they figured out his lips were going to remain shut tight.
The spot looked the same, only it was vacant now since the men who had shared the fire remained waiting in front of McNelly’s tent for their orders.
Josiah was relieved, glad for the moment alone. His body ached, his stomach begged for food, and his wounds, still fresh and sore, reminded him how much had changed since he’d left the Ranger camp.
It was obvious that nothing had changed much for the other men who had remained behind in camp. They had been stuck waiting. Waiting for whatever was next. It was a hard fact of life for the soldiering kind. Hurry up and wait. Be ready at a moment’s notice to fight to the death. Josiah would have traded places with them if he could have, not gone on the scouting trip at all. Save for the time with Francesca—but now even that encounter was looking to be a mistake. His shoulders had been heavy with regret from the moment he’d left the cantina. Still, he was glad to be back in camp.
“What the hell did you do that for, Wolfe?” Scrap walked out of the shadows from behind a boulder half the size of a house. He still wore his gun belt, the holsters unsnapped, two ivory-handled Peacemakers within reach.
Josiah jumped in his skin but tried not to show Scrap that he’d startled him. “I was just doing my duty.”
“Protectin’ a greaser?”
“Garcia’s a man with a family just like us.”
“He’s the damn enemy, that’s what he is. Woulda slit your throat, too, if he’d had half a chance.” Scrap stopped about ten feet from Josiah, his eyes black with anger and his body stiff as a board.
“Really, Elliot, what are you going to do? Shoot me? Or do you want to fight me? Go at me with your fists, like you did with Garcia?” Josiah’s tone was easy, without stress or fear. He didn’t move from his spot, either. He wore a swivel rig, allowing his own Peacemaker to always be at the ready, but he didn’t think of it as a weapon that would be needed for this fight. He wasn’t afraid of Scrap Elliot now, and he never had been. Sometimes, Josiah thought, all the boy really needed was a good ass-whippin’. But it wasn’t his place to deliver it, no matter how much he wanted to.
Scrap didn’t seem to know how to respond to Josiah’s easiness.
“Come on now,” Josiah said, “get it over with. There’s no one about. I won’t pull rank on you, or hold you accountable to the captain.” Josiah threw his hands up in the air, in offering. “You think punching at me will solve your problems, you just come right on and have at it.”
Scrap squeezed his fists tight.
The fire burned brightly between them. A log had obviously been thrown on it when they arrived in camp, and it allowed Josiah to see Scrap’s rage. The boy’s face was as red as the embers in the bottom of the pit, and sweat had started to bead on his lip. It wasn’t the first time Josiah had seen Scrap mad as a rabid skunk. What concerned him was the fact that Scrap seemed to always be angry, and unpredictable, instead of just every once in a while.
“I ain’t gonna shoot you, Wolfe.”
“Well, that’s good news.” A quick burst of pain throbbed in Josiah’s shoulder. He was weak but couldn’t show it, couldn’t respond to the pain. He wasn’t sure what Scrap was capable of, at least not at the moment.
“You made me look like a danged fool.”
Josiah shrugged. “You didn’t need my help with that.” He stepped toward Scrap. “Look, why don’t you sit down and take a load off. It’s been a long couple of days for us both. I’ll rustle us up some beans and coffee. The last thing I want to do is fight with you, or anybody else for that matter. Fighting will come soon enough for us all.”
“Tomorrow.”
“First light. But you keep that to yourself, at least till McNelly gives his orders and makes his assignments.”
“Maybe I won’t go.”
“That’s always your choice.”
“I suppose it is.” Scrap exhaled and looked up at the sky. “Why is it I never get my chance to be the one that gets noticed for doin’ brave things? I can’t never win. I’m never gonna be nothin’ but what I am.”
“You ever think maybe you try
just a little too hard?”
Scrap shook his head. “I don’t think I try hard enough.”
There was a tone in Scrap’s voice that almost allowed Josiah to take pity on the boy. Almost. “Maybe you ought to think a little before you act on a thought that passes through that thick head of yours. You might just get yourself, or someone else, hurt one of these days if you don’t start doing that pretty soon.”
CHAPTER 23
The night passed quicker than Josiah had hoped it would. Racked with pain, along with his growing fear that the infection was returning, he had found sleep difficult to come by. When he did manage to drift off, uncomfortable and uncertain dreams invaded Josiah’s mind.
He couldn’t quite call the dreams nightmares, because he couldn’t remember them clearly. They seemed to be made up of a collection of bad memories, of places he wished he’d never been, and of people he wished he would’ve never met—or lost. Every waking and sleeping moment felt like it had been touched by regret, and that emotion seemed to be as much an infection as the green pus that had seeped out of his wound in Arroyo. There was no one to tend to him now like there had been when he was shot, no soft comforting hand, or the presence of someone watching over him, making sure he was all right, that he would live to see another day. Juan Carlos and Francesca were gone.
When he had been awake during the night, tossing and turning on the hard ground, his thoughts danced to his living past, and to other nights before battle. They all had been a mix of fear, anxiety, happiness, and joy. Sometimes, it seemed there was no other time Josiah had felt more alive than when he was pulling a Springfield bayonet out of a Yankee’s belly, or pulling the trigger of a Henry rifle with certainty and confidence of his aim. He was good at killing, and at surviving. Sometimes too good.
Memories of the war seemed to run all together.
Day after day was a shower in blood. Screams became the music of life. It was never easy killing another man. But it was battle. It was kill or be killed. Just like now. Just like the day that waited for him. He was sure of it, could feel it in his bones and deep in his chest. Just the memory of killing sped up the beat of his heart.
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